


It Could Stay This Simple (Just Stay This Little)

by coconuticecream (staymonkey)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, But He's Also 22, Cuddling, Dick is Eight Years Old, Domestic Fluff, Familial bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Paternal Instinct, Pre-Robin, Short & Sweet, good parenting, he's trying very hard, mild panic attack, parenting, warm and fuzzy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staymonkey/pseuds/coconuticecream
Summary: Maybe claiming legal guardianship over a child at 22, and so soon after becoming Batman, spread Bruce thinner than he'd realized. Maybe Bruce was less equipped to parent a third grader than he'd thought. Maybe Bruce should do more to invite Dick into his life.Maybe Bruce should hug Dick, or promise he'll do better by Dick, or tell Dick that he loves Dick more than he thought himself capable.(or: bruce and dick practice self care together.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 36
Kudos: 460





	It Could Stay This Simple (Just Stay This Little)

**Author's Note:**

> I only intended to repost a drabble that I wrote on Tumblr months and months ago, but then I decided to edit for grammar and clarity. And then I decided I'd written Dick too young and docile. And then I edited out an entire conversation and added a new one. And then I threw in an extra scene entirely. Anyway, happy belated mother's day, have a Mother Bat.

At 7:39 am, Bruce wakes up to the scraping of gnashing teeth. They aren't his own. He soundlessly heaves his bulk out from underneath his goose down comforter, careful to avoid shifting his bedding any more than necessary. Once free from his sheets, he glances over and, sure enough, he finds Dick curled up in an impossibly tiny ball on the very far edge of Bruce's four-poster, California king-sized bed. Dick's small frame is tucked beneath a corner of the decorative Spanish Toscana sheep fur throw blanket that Bruce keeps at the end of his bed. This isn't the first time Dick has slunk into Bruce's bedroom after being tucked into his own. 

Dick's company doesn't bother Bruce, but Bruce isn't sure why Dick would want to share a bed at his age. Not unless there's something wrong with Dick’s own room.

The next day, Bruce checks Dick's room for leaks, loud pipes, inadequate bedding, and unfortunate furniture. He, with Alfred's guidance and sharp commentary, cleans the baseboards, changes the sheets, and replaces the pillows. He takes Dick out for new accent pieces, rugs, duvets, but Dick won't pick out his own decor, and so Bruce buys pieces to match Dick's Haly's Circus poster, to Dick’s seeming satisfaction. Still, not two early afternoons later, Bruce wakes up to Dick again. Still huddling at the very edge of the mattress, still fetal as he sleeps.

Alfred suggests that perhaps the issue is not in the room's decor, but in the room's spacious closet and proximity to a particularly eerie magnolia tree just outside the window. So, Bruce builds Dick a complicated nightlight, with far too many settings, and installs it while Dick is at school. He assures Dick that monsters can’t even enter the Manor because they know that Batman lives there and even monsters are afraid of Batman. Dick just cocks his head and furrows his brows, and Bruce wonders if he’s afraid of monsters at all (he isn’t, Batman finds out when he catches Dick watching _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_ by himself.)

Finally, having exasperated most of his theories, Bruce opts for a more direct approach. One late night, he feigns sleep; closing his eyes and evening his breath even while staying awake and alert. Hours pass before he hears the _nearly_ silent patter of tiny feet in the hall leading to Bruce's bedroom (Bruce hasn't taught Dick stealth yet, and he won't until he can be sure that Dick won't abuse the skill in the Manor or at charity events). Sure enough, Bruce's heavy oak door opens just enough for Dick to slip through. He doesn’t feel or hear Dick climb onto the mattress, but he’d purposefully draped that sheep fur throw over his feet so that he feels the gentle tug when Dick pulls the corner over himself.

Bruce waits, to give Dick time to relax so that he won’t start, and then he quietly murmurs, “Do you want a pillow? Or more of the blanket? It can get chilly at night.”

Dick does not respond for several, tense seconds. And then, before Bruce can lift his head, Dick scrambles from the bed with the frenzy of a trapped sparrow; his descent uncharacteristically clumsy. Bruce sits up and flicks on his bedside lamp just in time to watch Dick trip over himself in his effort to put distance between himself and Bruce's bed. His gut twists with unwelcome guilt as Dick blurts a string of apologies. 

Bruce frowns. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he says when Dick pauses to take a breath. Dick only blinks at him with wide eyes, and so Bruce pats the space next to himself. “My pillows have feathers in them,” he offers, sounding silly even to himself.

And maybe it is a silly thing to say because then Dick's expression pinches the same way it did the first time he watched a chef fish a lobster from a restaurant tank. Bruce finds himself holding his breath, and he feels silly about that too.

Finally, Dick says, "That's real weird, B, birds don't go in _pillows_ ,” and Bruce snorts so hard that it startles Dick into a small jump. Bruce releases the breath he'd been holding and pats the mattress beside him.

“No, it's nice,” Bruce promises. Dick, lured by the novelty of Bruce's pillows, grips the post at the foot of the bed and begins to climb back up. “The feathers keep the pillow cool; you don't have to flip it. Come, try it out. If you like the feathers, we’ll get you some too.”

Dick stills, a thin leg still dangling off the bed. “I’m okay,” he says, eyes trained down at the duvet. His shoulders shift like he’s about to release the post and slide off the bed again, and Bruce grapples with _why_. 

“I know you’re okay," Bruce says quickly before Dick can slip away like an eel. "But I want you to have nice things. If you don’t want feathers, we can always get you something else, like down. Come on up, so we can talk."

Dick quirks his eyebrows and glances up to meet Bruce's earnest gaze. "Do I go up or down? Make up your mind." 

Bruce is confused for only a moment before he rolls his eyes and says, "I meant goose down. For your pillows. It's fluffier than feathers." 

"I don't want that," Dick mumbles, gripping the bedpost so tightly that his knobby little knuckles turn white. 

"That's okay too," Bruce says. He talks as if this were a hostage crisis: slowly, evenly, gingerly. "Tell me what you do want. I want to work with you on making the Manor home for you. Talk to me, and I'll listen.”

"'S fine," DIck insists, looking away again. "I don't want anything." He hops off the bed and takes a few steps back, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking on the balls of his feet. "I'll go back to my own room, okay?" 

"Dick," Bruce says firmly. Dick still doesn't look at him. "Dick, this isn't talking, this is evading. You need or want something. Just tell me what it is, and I can get it for you." 

"I don't want you to!" Dick says, raising his voice and shooting Bruce a venomous glare that surprises Bruce. Bruce scowls. 

"Well, I do," he shoots back. "I do want to, so say it." 

"Say what?" Dick snarks, even though his arms tighten around himself. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please?" he asks weakly. "What if I say please?"

"Please what?" DIck chirps. Bruce drops his hand. 

"Please trust me," he says. "Please tell me what's going on. Please sleep under proper covers, and please don't shove yourself at the end of my bed. You're not a dog."

"Do you wish I was a dog?" Dick asks, his previously sharp voice wavering in sudden uncertainty. Then he blinks a few times, but he can't blink away the glassiness in his eyes. Bruce's own eyes widen in abject horror as Dick's lower lip begins to tremble. 

" _What_?" Bruce blurts, too loudly for the quiet room. 

Dick grinds his palms into his eyes and hiccups, and Bruce considers shouting for Alfred. 

"Dick," Bruce says, shoving aside his duvet and scrambling to his feet. "Dick, don't cry. Dick, please do not cry. Dick, I'm serious. Dick, don't do it. Dick. _Dick_ ," Bruce pleads, holding his palms out uselessly as Dick begins to sob in earnest. Bruce feels awful and nauseated, but he doesn't try to crowd or touch Dick while Dick cries for the first time in front of Bruce since Bruce approached him after his parents' death. 

“'M-'m-'m sorry," Dick hiccups, still aggressively rubbing his eyes. His chest heaves beneath the Superman symbol on the front of his pajama shirt. "I didn' mean to," he mumbles. "I didn', I promise I didn'-"

"Dick, you need to breathe," Bruce says, lowering his voice into a, hopefully, calming timbre. "Can you breathe for me?" 

Dick shakes his head, his breath punching from his mouth in staccato bursts. 

"Okay," Bruce says (firmly, gently). "But I'm going to need you to try anyway. Does your chest hurt?" 

Dick nods.

"It's gonna keep hurting if you don't breathe. Is it okay if I come over and stand beside you?" 

Dick nods again, and that surprises Bruce too. 

Bruce steps closer and crouches closer to Dick's height. Dick is still covering his face, but Bruce can see his ruddy cheeks. "Dick, you're having a panic attack, but we're going to get through it together, okay?"

Dick doesn't respond. 

"Dick," Bruce says (still firmly, still gently), "it's going to be okay. This is going to pass, and you're going to be okay. But right now, I need you to breathe." 

Dick takes a few gulping breaths that make his slim shoulder shake. 

"Slowly, Dick," Bruce reminds him. "Breathe slowly, and deeply. Can you put your hand on my chest? I'll breathe with you so that you can feel what I mean." 

Dick doesn't hesitate, immediately slapping a sticky, wet hand on Bruce's chest even as he squeezes his eyes shut. Bruce covers Dick's hand with his own and takes several, very deep, very steadying breaths. 

"You feel that?" he asks, and Dick nods again. "Good. Now, I want you to put your other hand right over Superman's "S" and try to match my breathing." 

Dick doesn't nod, but he doesn't need to because he places his other hand on his chest and opens his eyes. His eyelashes are heavy with tears, his face is pinched again, and his cheeks are rubbed raw, but he's attentive as Bruce inhales. Dick does the same, albeit stutteringly. Bruce holds the breath and then exhales, and Dick follows suit. 

Together, they inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

Eventually, Dick's breathing slows. He moves his hand from Bruce to drag the sleeve of his shirt under his eyes. His lower lip is still trembling, but he's watching Bruce with the same resolute expression that he adopts right before he asks Bruce if he can drive the Porsche yet. (The answer will always be no, but Dick doesn't need to know that for quite some time.) 

After several more minutes of breathing and watching and trembling, Dick sniffles, "'M okay. Sorry." 

Bruce shakes his head. "Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong."

"No, I mean sorry for," Dick gestures at himself vaguely. "I didn't mean to be scared." 

"No one ever means to be scared, it just happens," Bruce offers. Dick smirks and quirks his eyebrows at Bruce, the expression refreshing on his raw face. 

"Yeah, they do," Dick retorts. "Or they wouldn't watch scary movies. Or throw rocks at Arkham. Or ignore Alfred." 

The last jab is clearly aimed at Bruce, and Bruce winks at Dick to maintain levity. "I don't ignore Alfred. I take everything Alfred says very seriously, and then I do what I want anyway." 

Dick blinks at him. "Does that mean I can do what I want too? Cuz, I want to drive the blue car." 

Bruce scowls and Dick chokes out a laugh, which turns into a soft cough. Bruce lifts a hand to pat Dick's back but stops himself. He's not sure if Dick is ready for casual touching yet. Dick glances at the raised hand warily, and so Bruce lowers it. Dick rubs at his face again and Bruce stands. 

"Come to the bathroom, we need to wash your face," Bruce says. Dick follows, and he gives Bruce permission to pick him up and set him down on the quartz countertop. As Bruce dabs at Dick's cheeks with a damp hand towel, Dick kicks his legs absently. 

"You know I don't even like dogs, right?" Bruce asks with an air of nonchalance. Dick stiffens and still his legs, but Bruce maintains his ministrations. 

"That's weird, everyone likes dogs," Dick finally says before he begins kicking his legs again. 

"Yeah, well. I'd rather hang out with you than a dog. Dogs don't know how to appreciate a good car. And they can't climb trees or recite the first 50 decimal digits of pi." Bruce pulls the washcloth away. He cocks his head at Dick and bites his lower lip. Dick squints at him. 

"What?" Dick asks. "Why are you making that face?" 

"Oh," Bruce says, shaking his face as if to shake away the expression. "Sorry. It's just, I just realized my Board of Directors can't do any of that either. Hey, Dick, what do you say about running a company? You'd have to go to meetings during recess, but it might be fun." 

Dick scoffs and lifts his chin with the arrogance possessed only by celebrity athletes and 8-year-olds. "I'm never going to be _that_ boring," he announces. Bruce doesn't doubt it. 

Bruce finishes cleaning Dick's face, but then Dick notices the garish container of 24k gold facemask by Bruce's sink. He only wanted to read the label, but Bruce opens the container so that Dick can see inside too. And then, on a whim, Bruce dabs some of the gel onto his fingertip and smears it on Dick's nose. Dick squawks, "hey!" so Bruce swipes more on his face. And so, of course, Dick then dunks his entire fist into the container and slings a glob of it at Bruce too. Bruce catches the bulk of it in his hair, which he then shakes out so that drops fly across the room and splatter over Dick, whose squeal nearly breaks the sound barrier. 

"Gross, B!" Dick laughs. "Ew. It's all squishy," he adds, poking at a drop that landed on his elbow. "It kinda feels like glitter glue." 

"Want to learn how to use it right?" Bruce asks. Dick nods enthusiastically, and so Bruce dips his fingers back into the pot and begins applying it in earnest to Dick's lightly chafed cheeks. 

"Make it the shape of a domino mask," Dick demands. 

"A domino, really?" Bruce asks, even though he dutifully paints an outline for one. "Not a cowl? I could do the whole top half of your face." 

"No, I want a domino," Dick insists, scrunching his nose at the cold gel. "Green Lantern has a domino, and I want mine to look like his." 

Bruce rears back. "Green Lantern? Really?" he splutters incredulously. Dick beams up at him, uncaring if not unaware of Bruce's indignance.

"Yeah, that's what I said." 

Bruce wrinkles his nose. Dick reaches for the container since Bruce has stopped finger painting DIck's face, but Bruce lifts it out of his reach. 

"Green Lantern doesn't pay his taxes," Bruce warns. 

"I don't know what that means," Dick mutters, still straining to reach the coveted face mask without falling off the counter. 

"He doesn't say please _or_ thank you," Bruce adds. 

"Green Lantern's cool, you're just weird." 

"You haven't even met Green Lantern," Bruce mutters, reluctantly adding more mask to fill in the outline he'd created. "You've met Flash, though. Flash has a cowl. Are you sure you don't want a cowl like him? It's not too late."

"Positive," Dick chirps. 

Bruce finishes Dick's mask, and then he lets Dick make him a domino too (although it winds up looking closer to a cowl). The amount of product smeared on their faces, in their hair, and on the counters cost more than a month of Dick's private school tuition, but it's worth the faces Dick makes as the mask grows sticky and dry. 

"We can keep doing this, right?" Dick asks as they rinse their faces side-by-side 20 minutes later. 

"We need to get some sleep," Bruce says, but Dick shakes his head. 

"No, I mean, we can keep, you know. Hanging out and stuff." 

Bruce cuts the faucet and dries his face with a fresh hand towel, which he then tosses to Dick who does the same. "Sure, chum. Why do you ask?"

Dick shrugs and averts his eyes, choosing to focus his attention on rubbing the towel on the front of his shirt in a valiant attempt to dry the water that'd splashed there. "Dunno. I just don't usually see you around, I guess. Kinda thought you didn't want to see me." 

Bruce blinks at Dick, but Dick just picks at a dried spot of gold on his pajama sleeve. 

"Dick, I wouldn't try and avoid you. I've just got work and Harvey's campaign keeps me out, and then there's-"

"Batman, yeah," Dick mutters. "No, I know. I just." Dick worries the towel between his hands. "Don't want you to forget about me, 's all." 

Bruce grimaces at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Maybe claiming legal guardianship over a child at 22, and so soon after becoming Batman spread Bruce thinner than he'd realized.

Maybe Bruce was less equipped to parent a third grader than he'd thought. 

Maybe Bruce should do more to invite Dick into his life.

Maybe Bruce should hug Dick, or promise he'll do better by Dick, or tell Dick that he loves Dick more than he thought himself capable. 

"Dick?" he asks, swallowing the lump in his throat. Dick glances at him from the corner of his eyes. 

"Yeah?"

Bruce inhales and exhales. Inhales and exhales. Inhales. Exhales. 

Dick doesn't look away. 

Finally, Bruce clears his throat and says, "If I take you to Harvey's fundraiser tomorrow, do you promise not to spoil his coin trick? He's going to want to show it to you, and you're going to have to pretend you don't know how it works. Can you do that?" 

Dick's lips twitch. "Yeah, I think I can," he says. "I'll be good." 

"You already are," Bruce says, reaching over and mussing Dick's hair. Dick lets him, offering a lopsided grin when Bruce strides past him to climb back into bed. Dick starts to follow, but then he hesitates at the threshold between the bathroom and bedroom. Bruce climbs under his sheets anyway and then pats the spot beside him. 

"Are you coming?" he asks. 

Dick grins, kills the bathroom light, and then scampers over. He launches himself onto the bed and bounces once before crawling beneath the sheets too. He takes a moment to settle, snatching a pillow to curl around before giving Bruce permission to switch off the lamp.

Satisfied, Bruce rolls over and closes his own eyes.

But just as Bruce begins to drift, Dick murmurs. “The feathers are kinda stabby. I think I'd prefer down, and you should too.”

Bruce snorts. “Sure thing, chum.”


End file.
